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“Remember,” Victoria said, “Muffet and I will get on at the very next stop. We’ll sit where you can see us. It’s better if you don’t speak to us, but if you think you can’t manage, or someone frightens you, come to me.”

“I can manage,” Maud said curtly. Her stomach was upset. She wasn’t used to eating breakfast in the dark, and her whole body felt queer.

Victoria glanced along the platform. “The farmers will be here soon,” she said. “You won’t be alone long. Remember — don’t talk to strangers. Do you have your ticket and your money?”

“I’ve got it.” Maud unclenched her fist and showed a knotted-up handkerchief. A rectangle of cardboard showed through the cloth.

“Don’t lose it.” Victoria seemed reluctant to leave her. She looked up at the sky. “I don’t think it’s going to rain, but if it does, your parasol —”

“It won’t rain,” Maud said impatiently. She knew what Victoria was going to say: if it rained, she could use her new parasol as an umbrella. As far as Maud was concerned, this was useless advice. The parasol was made of silk, and Maud had no intention of subjecting it to water spots. If it rained, she would fling herself on top of it in order to protect it. “Hadn’t you better go?” It was the whole point of getting up early and coming to this place — that no one should see her with Victoria.

Victoria’s lips tightened. “Don’t be rude,” she admonished Maud. “It’s disrespectful to speak to me like that. I only want to make sure —” She broke off. “Muffet and I will get on at the next station,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Maud. Victoria studied her for a moment and then turned away. A moment later she had vanished into the mist.

The farmers’ carts arrived a few minutes later. Victoria had explained to Maud that this was where the train picked up milk from the neighboring farms. Maud kept to the farthest corner of the platform, hoping that none of the men would speak to her. She had her answer ready: if anyone asked what she was doing there, she would reply that she was not allowed to talk to strangers.

But nobody asked. If the farmers noticed her, they were too busy to be curious. Before the sky was fully light, the train came. Maud was glad to board it. She felt exposed, standing on the platform, surrounded by fog and dingy sky.

“Ticket?” asked the conductor, and Maud unknotted her handkerchief and handed it over. “This is a grown-up ticket, missy. Children under ten are half fares.”

Don’t let anyone ask you questions, Hyacinth had warned in her letter. They’ll feel sorry for you because you’re little, and try to make you talk. Don’t let them.

“I’m eleven,” Maud said pertly. “I guess I know what sort of ticket I ought to buy.”

The conductor wrinkled his nose. Maud could tell he had changed his mind about her. She was no longer a helpless innocent who ought to ride half-price. She was a stuck-up little thing who could be trusted to look after herself. Maud selected an empty seat and turned her face to the window. Don’t talk to strange men, Victoria had warned her. Little girls have been kidnapped because they talked to strange men. Maud was inclined to scoff at the idea of kidnappers — if people really wanted children, there wouldn’t be so many leftovers at the Barbary Asylum — but she couldn’t forget Victoria’s words.

The train began to move. Maud fixed her eyes on the scene outside the glass. After spending three months confined to the Hawthorne house, the red barns and wide pastures appeared almost exotic. She craned her neck to watch a collie dog chase a squirrel.

The train slowed again. It had come to the station in Hawthorne Grove. On the platform was Victoria, clad in her best fawn-colored suit — and Muffet. Maud goggled at the hired woman. She had never seen Muffet wear anything but a print housedress. Now she saw that Muffet owned a jacket and skirt in a plaid so bright it was almost scarlet. Her hat was covered with what looked like hundreds of bloodred cherries. Maud was guiltily grateful that it was Victoria who traveled with Muffet